


Tomorrow

by Morgan



Series: Grace Under Fire [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-03
Updated: 2010-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8702362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: "Tomorrow they get to do it all over again."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

It's ridiculous, really.

Sam’s eyes are distant and a little speculating. He has tilted his head towards the side window and he's thousand-yard-staring into the bland night landscape. Sometimes when Dean looks at him all he can think is "purpose", "reason" and "center of my goddamned universe" along with quite a few other things like "fucking hot" and "beautiful" and frankly he gets a little disgusted with himself when he lets his gaze travel the relaxed length of his baby brother's legs, takes in the splay of them and starts thinking in terms of race horses and runners and other things that denote speed and powerful muscle at work.

He has a whole cache of words attached to Sam's physical appearance, and they are pretty impressive as such things go. They hinge around concepts of movement and strength and endurance when it comes to what Sam is capable of, but it doesn't get really bad until he starts thinking about what Sam is, what he means. That's when Dean really loses out to his own thoughts, because he can't help thinking of Sam as beautiful and important and it's all "love of my life", "can't live without him" and shit like that. Christ. It's all true, too, and he knows it. Sam is the most important thing in the world to Dean, he's never going to get around that. Can't do shit about it. Won't say it, though he kind of suspects that Sam has it all figured out.

Kind of ridiculous.

Sam, though, fuck.

Sam will run his fingers down Dean's cheek to his throat and look at him with this completely damning lack of propriety and say things like "so beautiful" and "color of your eyes" and shit like that and Dean's heard all that before, sure, but it matters when it comes from Sam, because Sam means it in a way no one else ever has. He means scars and all. He means years of it, years behind them and, god willing, years ahead and that’s when Dean turns his head away, because fuck, he can't deal with it.

Sam wrapping the back of his head in his warm palm saying "come on, fucking do it" is one thing. That he can deal with. Sam kissing him like the house is on fire, that's good. Sam pressing soft forgiving lips against his cheek and saying too many other things, that makes Dean twitchy.

Most things in their life are harsh and unforgiving. That's the way it is. It's cuts and bruises and blood and overstretched tendons and occasional broken bones. Dean's used to that, he can deal with that. Violence, blunt or sharp, is easy. Sam's light fingers tracing out a pattern of forgiveness amongst old scars with a kind of tender reverence makes him really fucking uncomfortable.

All the harsh, hard things are simple to understand and easy to deal with. Sam looking like he wants to smack Dean across the back of the head and bitch at him, that's something Dean knows exactly what to do about, how to handle. Everything else just feels dicey.

When they were kids Sammy held his hand because they were crossing the road and held on because there was really no difference to him anyway, they were one and the same in a lot of ways. Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. They grew up fighting and tumbling like puppies and they grew into sparring and caring for each other the same way. Not that many areas that were out of bounds between them and then suddenly no areas at all were untouchable and fuck, Dean knows it's kind of twisted, but that's the way it is with them.

Right now Sam is sitting so calmly, body relaxed, mind no doubt going a hundred miles an hour, that’s the speed it usually coasts along anyway and Dean thinks about that too. His way too smart kid brother, who gives him a good run for his money, challenges him, makes him work harder, pushes him. Makes him _better_. It’s natural competition, this dance between them and they sometimes push too hard, but it’s still more than Dean gets from anyone else.

-What? Sam asks without looking over at him.

-Nothing, Dean answers, giving it half a smirk and a little self-deprecating shrug.

-Gonna stop soon?

-Yeah.

-Good.

They drive a little while longer, just ‘cause the night is long enough as it is and they’re still fucking running, like they have been for what feels like years now. Dean tries not to think about that. He kind of wants to talk to Sam about maybe stopping for a while some time soon, for real, go to ground for like a couple of months maybe, just… but it could be that Dean is drained and wound down and hurting and his shoulder is throbbing in some less well defined way and he’s just. Tired. That’s all.

The place Sam finds for them is a two-story, one of those motels that feels like it got big notions of its own importance at some point and slapped another floor on it to take on more business. It’s like the seams don’t match, somehow. They get a room on the second floor, straight up from one of the stairs. There’s pigeon shit on the landing and some really tall fucking trees that the pigeons roost in, but the car is under the carport thing and it’s going to be fine.

They grab their gear and settle in. Sam sets up the computer but heads back out to find them some food and Dean contemplates doing something useful while Sam’s gone, but for some reason he’s just sitting there staring blankly at the mirrored reflection of the room in the TV he can’t be bothered to turn on when Sam comes back with some kind of Indian food.

-Hey, Sam says and drops the key on the table by the door before setting the containers down on the bedside table.

Dean rubs his hand over his face and through his hair looking at the slightly questioning expression on Sam’s face. He nods his hello back and turns his attention to the food. It smells of curry and spices and all it translates to in Dean’s head is heat. The heat of chili.

-You okay, man? Sam asks.

Dean looks up and Sam actually has his little worry-frown going.

-Fine. Tired.

What a bitching whopper of a lie. He’s blankly exhausted and thinking about holing up in some survivalist cabin somewhere to sleep for a few weeks and Sam is looking same as usual, road creased and weary, a hint of desperado to his defensive stance, but nothing Dean hasn’t seen on a thousand nights like this.

Sam chucks his jacket, pulls the gun out of the back of his jeans and sets it by the pillow and sits down starting to sort through the food. Dean looks at him, the economic grace of his movements, the way he holds himself and he thinks about licking his way down Sam’s chest slowly and running his hands in a snaking path to follow.

Sam gives him Tandoori chicken and Indian bread and they eat with the TV murmuring in the background.

They have their dinner and then Dean sits back on his bed, leaning against the pillows resting his head as much as he can and he's not really aware that Sam is watching him until Sam suddenly stands and comes to the side of his bed.

He looks up at Sam with a question half formed on his lips and Sam makes a gesture for him to sit up and move forward. Dean frowns at him. Sam gives him this tight impatient look and then gestures again more emphatically. Dean slowly straightens back up and Sam slots in behind him, forcing him to scoot forward.

-Your shoulder is killing you, Sam says calmly and puts his big, warm hands on Dean's shoulders and kneads before Dean has a chance to say that he's fine.

The noise he makes is somewhere between a groan of pleasure and the tight huff of pain. He can feel the cement of tight muscle tissue pressed under Sam's fingers heat and tense even further for just a second and then Sam spreads his fingers wide to cover more area and just leaves them there to warm the skin and muscle.

-Relax, Sam says and his voice is quiet and intimate, word spoken so the breath that carries them slides down Dean's back like a caress.

Dean takes a deep breath and straightens up, tries to will his muscles into letting go. It doesn't really work. Sam rubs circles over his shoulder for a while and then digs his thumbs in right at the bone just below his neck and Dean feels the sharp pain trickle all the way down to the base of his spine.

-Okay, Sam says, "this isn't going to work. Take your shirt off and lie down".

Dean would leer and comment if he wasn't so fucking exhausted. He just does what Sam asks, laying himself down on his stomach after chucking his shirt and t-shirt. His eyes are gritty and he can smell himself, which is never a good sign, but Sam just waits until he's laid out as relaxed as he can get and then starts rubbing him down. The cool smell of menthol tells Dean Sam has found some Tiger Balm in his bag and the heat in his skin helps. The harder Sam rubs, the deeper it goes.

Sam works with care and competence, rubbing and then kneading cautiously at the knots in Dean's shoulder until Dean gets mussy-headed, dizzy.

Sam does things like this without ever being asked. As a matter of fact when Dean thinks about it, this is just like that other thing Sam does. There's a kind of firm, but gentle care in his touch that has Dean's consciousness sliding the long slow slope towards sleep with every pass of Sam's hands down his back. It feels really fucking good. Dean knows he's making low, rumbly noises and he can almost feel Sam smiling at him.

Dean's thoughts move like taffy, like molasses, something slow and sweet like that.

-M'na, Dean says and Sam interprets that correctly as "I'm going to fall asleep".

-It's okay. Just let go.

Somewhere between the warmth and the steady pressure of Sam's hands Dean slides under the surface and lets sleep have him for a while. When he wakes back up he's got a towel laid over his back and then the comforter and then Sam generating enough heat to make Dean dopey.

He twists his head in Sam's direction and finds Sam in sweats with shower damp hair, freshly shaven and looking at him with that fond look in his eyes that makes Dean feel stupid.

-Go take a shower, Sam says smiling that all-too-knowing smile.

Dean is kind of grateful that Sam doesn't say any of the sappy things he was no doubt thinking.

In the shower the last of the tension is sluiced down the drain and Dean's shoulder feels well worked over, but loose and his head is slowly clearing, but he's still really fucking weary. Dean just stands there under the spray for a while, hot water beating down on him, the patter of it as it hits making it’s own rhythm. He’s beyond tired now, and dull and grey. He breathes steam and thinks of guns and blood and his brother.

He steps out, dries off, puts on sweats and a t-shirt and rubs the towel over his hair as he walks back in to the room. Sam is shutting his computer down. Dean sits heavily on his bed and drapes the towel over the bedpost at the foot end.

Sam double-checks the locks and draws the curtains. Dean lies down and watches Sam go through the ritual, the short prayer at the door, the triple check of their weapons, all that stuff they do like breathing, without thought. Boots by the bed in the same spot always so they know where they are at a seconds notice, same way they’ve been doing things for a while now. They don’t usually keep their discipline this tight, but things are different lately. Harder.

Dean figures this is one of those nights when they’re sleeping in separate beds, he’s really not up for anything else. He’s exhausted in a way that turns the slightest movement into a feat of exertion and Sam is smart about stuff like that, knowing they need their strength. So Dean is surprised when Sam lays down next to him.

-Sam, he says.

-Just let me, Sam answer.

And Dean does. Of course he does. It makes his heart do really funny things in his chest, sink and swell and thud and boom. It makes him nervous, goddamn it. It’s such a wrong feeling that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Lucky for him, though, Sam knows what to do.

He’s already laying on his side, facing Sam and somehow he thought this was going to be one of those nights when Sam tries to fuse himself around Dean but Sam has always been a little smarter than anyone gives him credit for, including Dean and Dean gives him a lot of rein, knowing the size of the brain on the boy.

Sam shifts to his side too, giving Dean his back and then moves so Dean really has no other choice than to put his arm around Sam’s ribs. His palm lands at Sam’s heart, finding the thud there like he’s done so many times since they were children together. He used to cuddle in close on cold nights when they were kids, just like this, fitting into the curve of Dean’s body.

They’re grown men both of them now, but Sam still fits when his back is pressed so tight to Dean’s chest they breathe in rhythm. Sam bends his head forward just enough that Dean can press his forehead to the back of his neck and he has Sam’s hair tickling his face. That gives Dean another odd wave of comfort, again something he won’t even try to pick apart, it’s just one of the many things that is.

Once they might have been innocent like this and now they are not, but the base note remains the same. There’s care and comfort and necessity and the fact that they both rest better like this anyway. There was a time when separate beds was a luxury but lately Dean come to realize that they’ve always slept better, been more ready, been better in tune when they lay like this and that’s not the way things make the most sense for anyone but them. Same way Sam can take care of Dean by letting Dean take care of him.

It’s the familiar things that make their chaos-ridden existence easier to deal with. The little rituals, the details.

-Tomorrow, Dean says and holds on harder.

-Yeah, yeah, Sam says and lays his own hand over the hand Dean has resting over Sam’s heart.

Sam slowly strokes along Dean’s fingers with his thumb. There’s a lulling, soothing rhythm to that. Dean is almost willing to forego the thing he was going to say just so he can have that be the thing that takes him under again. But he needs to say something here, bring something to all this. He raises his head enough to graze his lips along Sam’s neck and feel the response that gets.

-Tomorrow, Dean says again and this time his voice is full of all that slow, syrupy sweetness and the sting of menthol against skin and the million things he always promises his brother.

-Yeah, Sam says.

Tomorrow they get to do it all over again. Tomorrow they get to put on yesterdays clothes and try to make the checkout. They get to see if the birds have gotten to the car before they try to find some place that has decent coffee. They get to run some more, blacktop under the wheels and music thudding from the speakers. They get to search their maps and their minds for where to go next even if every road starts looking the same.

But then at night, when they’re fed and warded and safe Dean is going to take Sam’s head in his hands and lick his way past Sam’s lips until he can’t breathe. He’s going to kiss Sam’s neck and his shoulders and his chest and he’s going to lick his way down Sam’s stomach. He’s going to caress every inch of burning hot skin and watch the flush tint him before he starts moving with it.

Dean’s going to take his time, do it right. He’s going to make sure to hit all Sam’s hotspots and find some new way to break the wall between them down until it’s just the too of them breathing overloud in whatever dingy room they find themselves in. He’s going to make Sam say his name over and over, curse him out. He’s going to…

-Tomorrow, Dean promises.

He can promise Sam tomorrow. That’s all he’s got.

-Yeah, Sam says. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.”

 

 

END


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